Role Models (Part 3)

This is secret stuff I’m going to tell you now, things I’ve never admitted to anyone. Not that there’s anything lurid here. Actually, I tried to think of some lurid memories, but I was only ten years old. The best I could come up with was my habit of going into the coat closet, closing the door, and fumbling around in the dark to steal nickels and dimes from my mother’s purse so I could buy baseball cards. I took a quarter once, but spent the rest of the week terrified that she’d notice. Quarters were big and more easily missed. Also, twenty-five cents was a lot of money. It equaled my weekly allowance, and for that I had to wash the car and run to the store every time my parents needed a loaf of bread. So maybe swiping some pocket change wasn’t exactly lurid, but it was still a little shocking. Especially for a boy who was planning on sainthood.

By the end of my first decade I had already worked my way past the notion of becoming my father. He was a man of strong and simple principles whose life was weighed down by physical ailments, some brought on by his own self-destructive behaviors, especially smoking. I learned a lot from my father, but didn’t want to be him.

I eventually rejected my goal of becoming Superman, too, after realizing that his ability to lift trucks and see through buildings came with its own limitations. For one thing, he was constantly having to hold back his powers; otherwise, he’d break a chair every time he sat down or set someone on fire just by staring at them. But most of all, there was the Kryptonite problem. For something that came from an exploding planet light years away, there were inexplicably large supplies of it on Earth. With even moderate exposure to trace levels of Kryptonite, Superman could get his butt kicked by anybody — even my father, who was lugging around portable oxygen tanks and a fifty-year, two-pack-a-day habit.

What I needed was a role model who could transcend physical and emotional weakness. But did such a person exist? To be human meant to be flawed. And if you were flawed today, you were probably going to be flawed tomorrow, and next week. Each of us was born with a soul, I learned. I pictured my soul as a white, shiny, oval-shaped thing that was inside of me, like a porcelain fixture hovering somewhere between my stomach and liver. Each time I committed a sin, I imagined the porcelain becoming stained; the worse the sin, the larger and darker the stain.

And that was the problem.

I saw people going to Confession, then shuffling home to do things that would just mess up their souls all over again. They seemed to spend their entire lives caught in this routine. Why did they keep making the same mistakes? Were they just slow learners? Or did they like kneeling in a dark booth every Saturday and admitting their heinous transgressions to a man half their age? People were forever breaking the commandments, sinning like mad, and just generally screwing up. It all seemed so inevitable and bleak, and I wanted no part of it. I yearned for a way out of the vicious cycles of life.

Then they taught us about the saints. Not infallible in the God-like sense, but much better than ordinary people, saints had apparently figured out ways to break free of the day-to-day nonsense. Of course they were amply rewarded for their efforts, mostly by being tortured, hanged, drawn and quartered, beheaded, disemboweled, or burned at the stake.

That was for me! For as long as I could remember people were marveling to my mother about how good I was. “He’s so quiet!” they would say. “And so good!” The combination was not lost on me. Quiet and good, I inferred, were two different words for the same idea. It was clear that I needed to shut my trap.

However, being quiet and good weren’t enough for true sainthood. There seemed to be a certain level of persecution that was also required. Could I endure torture? Being burned at the stake sounded like the worst fate I could imagine until I found out what it meant to be disemboweled. Many of the saints were killed for being too good. Others were falsely accused. I began to fantasize about being wrongly blamed for something, punished for a crime I didn’t commit. It was a chance to be stoic, to rise above, to be better than human — a chance to be too good. When our teacher demanded that the class tell her who had thrown the paper airplane when her back was turned, no one said a word; I was tempted to own up, even though I wasn’t the culprit.

I’d always had favorite baseball players, cartoons, and comic book heroes. Now I had a favorite saint: Stephen, a first-century Jew who was relentlessly vocal in his rejection of Old Testament law in favor of the emerging Christian doctrine. Tired of his preaching, a crowd drove Stephen from the city and stoned him to death, making him the first martyr. According to the stories we read in school, Stephen welcomed his pain without complaint, and fell into quiet prayer and contemplation. I could see him in my mind, standing alone and serene, while the other men threw the rocks. I used to wonder how they could have killed him like that. It seemed you’d have to throw rocks for a long time before you could kill somebody, and you’d have to throw them really hard. I’d look at the picture in my religion book, and none of those guys exactly looked like Sandy Koufax.

Years later, I learned that stoning sometimes involved having the victim lie down and then piling heavy rocks onto his chest. The rocks would be placed one at a time until their weight prevented the person from breathing. That must be how they did it. Stephen probably helped them gather the rocks, then treated them all to lunch before the actual stoning. He was quiet and good.

But was I capable of such strength? I certainly believed I deserved to suffer, and wanted to do so, especially in the service of others. I imagined standing trial for a crime, being convicted and sentenced, and then accepting whatever punishment might be imposed by these mere mortals. God would know that I was innocent, and would later reward my courage.

In real life, though, I was still hiding in the closet, feeling around in the dark for coins in my mother’s pocketbook and trying to mimic the blind newsstand vendor on the Avenue who could tell a nickel from a penny without hesitation. And I was hiding in the confession booth, too, feeling around in the dark for sins I couldn’t remember, trying to distinguish between major and minor ones, attempting to present a believably balanced assortment for the priest to forgive. Was I really cleansing my soul of its stains? Could I truly guarantee my entrance into Heaven by saying a few prayers of penance? And what about the fact that I was essentially making up the sins I was confessing? If lying itself was evil, the result of breaking one of God’s commandments, into what category did lying in Confession fit? I worried that I had created a new level of sin, something completely unforgivable — maybe something even God had failed to anticipate. Telling a lie in Confession was like being on trial for a murder I didn’t commit, and then, right before hearing the verdict, stabbing the judge to death.

And there was the altar boy thing. I had been roped into joining, lured by promises of a trip to Yankee Stadium, and by the pleadings of the priest, who insisted that without me they wouldn’t have enough boys to serve Mass. Most especially, they needed someone to volunteer for the earliest services, the ones that would have me getting out of bed at an unnatural hour, dressing myself, walking the four blocks to church, and changing into my holy garments — all without waking up everyone else in the house, and without tripping in the dark and cracking my head open on the sidewalk. As if to add one more cruel twist, the Mass was in Latin, a spooky language that was half-spoken and half-chanted, and would require me to study for eight long months of my young life. Then as soon as I finished learning the Latin Mass, the Pope changed it to English. I was really ticked off but just kept quiet about it and suffered in silence, because really, where do you go with a complaint like that?

I spent the rest of my childhood and much of my adult life battling the voices in my head. They have criticized ruthlessly, sentencing me to an insatiable sense of obligation, shame, failure, and guilt. I have never been good enough or done enough. Even the very idea that I could exceed my father’s reach, embody super powers, or live a life of saintly goodness was, in itself, worthy of punishment. Who did I think I was?

No, I couldn’t wait to grow up. And maybe I’m still waiting. But here’s what I’ve finally figured out. My father was a human being, at once flawed and admirable, who did his best. Superman was a fictional character who couldn’t possibly function in the real world. And Saint Stephen, if he existed, gave up his life too easily to people who would kill him for less than justifiable reasons. The truth is, I now confess to you, I’m one of those mere mortals. I’ve made more mistakes and committed more sins than I want to remember. If I have a soul, it’s been stained beyond recognition. But hiding those facts in a dark closet does nothing to promote growth. And so I’m slowly learning to let people in, trusting that they’ll prefer the reality they can see, rather than the illusions I once chased.

I have no more role models. But I know plenty of other mere mortals who possess traits that I try to emulate. And although I’ll never let go of obligation, I’m doing my best to walk away from shame and failure. Even the guilt is beginning to fade. I only wish I had told my mother about the stolen nickels and dimes, instead of that priest. Her forgiveness would have meant much more, and may have started me sooner on this road to accepting my own humanity.

The original artwork for four of the five cartoons in this post, as in most of the posts on this blog, were drawn by Ron Leishman. In many cases, I have manipulated the images to fit my needs, but the true brilliance is Ron’s. Visit his website to see what I mean.

The reason I first decided that boys had something very special was due to their ability to be altar boys. I could never figure out how they knew what to do. And you did it in Latin! Man, I really would have had you on a pedestal.

Hearing that you were sneaking coinage from dark places would have put us at par, however. I had to find 25 cents for the Saturday movie and a bag of popcorn. We didn’t have allowances because we could charge what we wanted at the General Store. However, not the Movie Theatre. I had to see Bambi or I would have died a lingering death! Thievery seemed worth the risk to save my life.

Amy, I had no idea what I was doing. I rang the bells at the wrong time and mixed up the water and wine. Fortunately, at that hour most of the congregation was either asleep or in an incense-induced trance. Only the priest noticed my mistakes.

Talk about growing up Catholic! If I could use words as eloquently as you do, my story would sound quite similar. To this day, Confession scares the “you know what” out of me. I always started out saying that I had lied even if it was a lie because there were many times I fabricated “sins” to the priest. There were times I honestly, deep in my soul did not feel I had anything to confess, but yet still had to go. What are we too good people supposed to do then? Interestingly, I picture my soul almost identically to what you’ve described. I wonder if that’s something we were taught. We’ve all made mistakes and done wrong. I think it’s part of the process of humanhood. The way you tell stories, your wrongdoings are almost endearing. As far as humans go, you’re one of the good ones, no doubt in my mind. Consider that quite a compliment because I’ve found that I don’t really like too many people 😉 (oh, boy! That probably will do wonders for my blog readership and chances for sainthood. 😉

Jessica, your blog deserves all the readers you can handle, and you’re definitely a saint in my book. (I’m not sure it does you any good to be a saint in my book, but right now it’s the best I can do.)

Being scared of Confession was part of the experience, I think. A friend of mine once wet his pants in the booth while listening to the priest. Talk about pushing the limits of unconditional forgiveness. Actually, I was always a little stunned that it wasn’t me. But it really wasn’t — I would tell you.

Hmm…I didn’t mean that you would be stoned by angry villagers, but that Saint Stephen apparently went along with it because he was quiet and good. You have a wonderful style, Charles. There isn’t anything in this post that could be eliminated without diminishing it in some way.

Then as soon as I finished learning the Latin Mass, the Pope changed it to English. I was really ticked off but just kept quiet about it and suffered in silence, because really, where do you go with a complaint like that?

I’ll bet the Vatican staff never dreamed that you’d find out they were watching you for just the moment when you became comfortable with your Latin cues, so they could throw you another curve! That second sentence really made me chuckle.

But seriously, in the end, you convey such a wonderful sense of hope in yourself and others that I felt touched and privileged to read the words. Unconditional love/acceptance is rare, but I think we become better at applying it to others and to ourselves as we age and become wiser.

As to your unrecognizable (and apparently theoretical) soul–in my belief system, none of us is ever beyond recognition or love in the eyes of God, stained souls notwithstanding. But I suppose that’s a discussion for another day. On this day, simply know that the evidence of your readers’ comments proves that you are blessed with many friends and family who are understanding and compassionate, and who love you. Take heart and rejoice in that, my friend! And thank you for having the courage to share this “secret stuff.”

After I read your posts, I always have the desire to travel back in time and observe you at about 10 or 11 years of age. I think that would be great fun. If scientists ever succeed at time travel, I’ll get a trip going. 😉

I enjoy the gentle way you present your history. With someone else’s hands at the keyboard, it could just as easily come across as a rant. I prefer your style of storytelling.

It’s interesting to think about how easy it is to preserve the words and images of kids growing up now. Every thought, photograph, and video seems to end up on Facebook. We didn’t even have a movie camera, so I have no idea what I sounded like or what kinds of things I said when I was a child. I guess that’s changed forever. But let me know about the time travel trip — I’d like to stop in on your decade, too.

I can see the interest in being a saint, but I can’t say Catholic school taught me about too many female ones, most I learned about after I got out of Catholic school. Side note, did you ever play eucharist as a kid? My siblings and I use to line up at home and give each other the body and blood using m & m’s, do you think I should confess that? lol.

I would’ve been too afraid to play Eucharist. When I was in school, you weren’t even allowed to chew the communion wafer; we had to let it slowly dissolve. I can still remember trying to peel it off the roof of my mouth without accidentally biting into it.

” I only wish I had told my mother about the stolen nickels and dimes, instead of that priest. Her forgiveness would have meant much more, and may have started me sooner on this road to accepting my own humanity.” Yes, Charles, I think this is the essence. Would that we could all talk to each other without the services of intermediaries who serve only to muddle the message and confuse the issue.

“I learned a lot from my father, but didn’t want to be him.” Is this what they call maturity? Whatever, I love this.

And you’re right, being quiet and good are never enough. Nothing is ever enough. Saints, if we believe in them, go to their resting place, wishing they could do more.

Your writing continues to astound me in its depth of feeling and analysis. A lovely mix of sensitivity and clear-eyed reason.

I had all of them: Koufax, Kaline, Mays, Banks, Ford, McCovey, Aaron, even a Casey Stengel. I loved my cards. I never had a Mantle, however. I did have a Mantle/Mays Home Run Kings card, but never a Mantle. Oy, the Catholic stuff. There were a tiny group of Sicilians on Staten Island that attended the Italian Presbyterian Church. Mt Olive I think. That was better than Catholics in all that fancy stuff and the museums they thought were churches. . The ONLY problem with Presbyterians is that you never know if you were doing good enough and you had to persevere. It’s kind of like perspire. You sweat about heaven or hell all the time. You got a quarter for allowance? Jeeez, you sound like Rockefeller people to me. I could not get more than 15 cents from that cheap tightwad Tooth Fairy. You mean my whole mouth was worth two bucks? A Monopoly Game cost $4.

You never got a Mantle? Just last week, my sister-in-law showed me a baseball she has that Mickey signed right in front of her. But if you and I had our old baseball cards back, we’d be richer than the Tooth Fairy. I still have a Hank Aaron card; actually I bought it for my son a few years ago, but I’m hoping he forgets about it.

I sympathise with Stephen in the cartoon. The frantic look speaks so much about the quiet and the good.

Though I enjoyed the entire series and applauded your faith and courage and human-ness displayed in each word, the entire exercise, yours and mine, your reader’s, reaches a brilliant crescendo with “And although I’ll never let go of obligation, I’m doing my best to walk away from shame and failure.”

All of us get lost in the tide of failures and the consequent shame. Very few people see the need to get out of it. You have, and you will succeed in walking away, too.

What I’m learning, Priya, is that the act of walking away from shame and failure is like much of life: it isn’t a smooth process, but is itself a series of tiny failures and successes. The trick, I suppose, is to focus on the hits and forget about the misses. Easier said than done, but worth the effort. Thank you, as always, for your insight; your feedback is very important to me.

Story of my life as a young girl and a woman who still has a difficult time saying “no” to anyone or anything:

‘For as long as I could remember people were marveling to my mother about how good I was. “He’s so quiet!” they would say. “And so good!” The combination was not lost on me. Quiet and good, I inferred, were two different words for the same idea. It was clear that I needed to shut my trap.’

There’s definitely something saintly about knowing when to keep our mouths shut. And something torturous, as well. There, killing two birds with one stone.

I can’t comment half as eloquently as the readers before me. So, what they said, too. It’s always so enjoyable reading your posts and the responses.

The problem, I think, is that so many people see someone who’s accommodating and cooperative as a person to be used. The trick then becomes trying to be good without joining the Doormat Club. Not so easy to do, and getting harder all the time. Maybe we can advise each other.

My favorite line: “And so I’m slowly learning to let people in, trusting that they’ll prefer the reality they can see, rather than the illusions I once chased.” You have such an interesting way of reflecting on your past. I loved all three parts of your “Role Model” series–very inspirational and thought-provoking–as well as entertaining!

It makes me sad to think of you as a kid, trying so hard to attain to some ideal none of us can ever achieve. We are all so mean to ourselves, and often to others — all too often in the name of religion. Being a role model for anyone is a huge responsibility, especially if it’s a role given and not chosen. I think of athletes and celebrities who by virtue of no real virtue but fame are lifted up and exalted as role models. And closer to home, I think of myself as parent to my kids — and I wonder what kind of role model I am to them, if they are even capable of seeing past the many flaws and stains on my character to find something admirable. If we look too intensely for a savior or a saint among our human crowds, we’re all going to be disappointed, wounded and scarred. I’m glad you are starting to, as you say, accept your own humanity, because it’s all we’ve got to work with. I’d like to whip out a hackneyed metaphor about clay or diamonds or whatever, but seriously, why? Humans break. It’s what we do. But I believe in a soul that can be cleaned, like a wash cloth that soaks up grime but comes sparkling clean again with a little bleach and hot water. I’m not Catholic. But I do have faith.

You’re more diamond than clay, Julia — one of the gems. Your mother knows it, your husband knows it, and your sons will figure it out if they haven’t already. Just keep writing, and being who you are. And definitely hold onto that faith.

Yet another thought-provoking post. I grew up with only a slight idea about religion/church/God. The only early memories I have are dark and scary (my brothers and I would hide up in the attic every Sunday morning hoping my mom couldn’t find us) The few years I attended our Baptist church seemed to be filled with horror stories of sin, death and a vengeful God. Or at least these were the things that stood out for me when I was around seven years old. Needless to say, I made it a point to stay away from organized religion in any form most of my life. I found my way spiritually mostly on my own by reading the Bible and personal experiences. To me a role model is someone who is full of flaws, yet honestly recognizes them and tries to overcome them anyway. To accept then let go of that guilt and shame we all feel. Give ourselves a break and stop condemning ourselves over and over. And focus more on the positive things we possess deep inside and let those things bloom. An ongoing but important process for sure! Thanks again for sharing your eloquent view on things.

Yes, Charles, you have a soul. No, there’s no possible way it’s been stained beyond recognition. Stained? Sure. Join the club. But stained beyond recognition? Nope. No way. Not you, my friend. You seem not to give yourself enough credit for being the kind, decent, honorable man that you are. Thanks for another great post–and don’t you go trying to shorten them! I agree with TTPT that there’s nothing in this post that could be cut without diminishing your wonderful style.

What an honest post. I love how you summed it all up at the end. With your reflections, and thoughts about your father, and being a mere mortal (him and you). It was so interesting to hear of your journey, both physically to the early morning mass in Latin, and dare I say spiritually, to your current sense of peace and open confession. Your posts have a sticking power, they hit upon things deep inside and are a joy to read.

I grew up Catholic, I had cousins that became priests, an uncle was a Monsignor, and a distant relative that was a Bishop. My family consisted of a chess game of clergymen.

I was (am) claustrophobic and hate complete darkness, so when I was a kid in the confessional I use to play with the light to distract me. I would kneel and bounce up to make it flicker like a disco ball. When I was given my penance it was administered on a first name basis…….

I’ve read quite a few of your posts, so none of that surprises me. Your blog is high-speed wit and brilliance, and I still think somebody should be performing your stuff in front of audiences. (I know — you’re afraid of the dark and the stage and enclosed spaces. So get someone else to do the speaking.)

I agree with your first paragraph, EOS, but after that I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re one of the most prolific bloggers I know, and your posts are filled with wonderful words and images.

And speaking of fluffer-nutters, wouldn’t they go great with a couple of egg creams right about now?

When I was little, hearing the stories about Jesus and the saints, I couldn’t imagine being serene and peaceful enough to just accept my impending death. I wondered why these seemingly intelligent people wouldn’t get the heck out of town and lie low somewhere or, at least, spread their message in a place where maybe they wouldn’t be killed for it. Thinking it over as a child, I recognized that I would be the one to run away. I accepted that although it might make me a coward, it would make me a living coward, which was better than the pain of being hung on a cross or stoned or burned.

I think of you as being diplomatic, that’s my experience of you, so far. And I empathise with a lot of what you’ve written here, including the ‘quiet’ and the ‘good’. However, since I grew up, I’ve often wished I’d been rather the opposite because what often comes with quiet and good is a lack of toughness that allows others to push us around. Did you find that?

I don’t think I’ve been pushed around, but I have spent a lot of energy dealing with people who thought they could, just because I’m not loud and aggressive. I think those why try to control others are opportunistic, which means they have to keep adjusting themselves according to circumstance. Ultimately, that becomes a position of weakness. Another group of dictators is currently learning this in various countries. I think strong values will always win out in the end.

Congratulations! I just awarded you with the Versatile Blogger Award (it’s a fun little award passed around within the blogging community). Here’s the shortlink: http://wp.me/p1jBAi-ct Looking forward to reading your “fun facts!” –Melissa

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.” I don’t think I need to go to confession to have that conversation. People like you, Charles, spend their days living the conversation and also living to fulfill the grace of God. You are a role model – don’t doubt that for a moment.

I chuckled at this: I was tempted to own up, even though I wasn’t the culprit. I had a friend whose father used to give him an occasional whack, just on principle. He’d yowl and ask, “What did I do now?” “I don’t know,” his dad would retort, but you’ve done something I don’t know about and I just took care of it.

As for that rhetorical question – Who did I think I was? – my own dad and I had a game we played. I’d be getting full of myself and he’d say, “Just who do you think you are?” And I’d enthusiastically giggle back, “ANYHOW!”

I named my pet turtle Anyhow, but I always asked him, “Just where do you think you’re going?” 😉

I have so enjoyed your series. I think there is a gentleness that comes from that 10 year old boy version who was so worried and tried to tread life lightly. That is a wonderful quality that shines brightly in your writing.

I know it’s dangerous to pull out one phrase. And I know in the very next sentence you moderate this stance. But I still feel obliged to say that I think it’s ok–and probably even good and healthy–to have role models. There are certainly many bad role models out there. And no role model is perfect. But having a role model (or several) gives us something to strive for; it gives us a reason to be humble. I’m firmly convinced there are a lot of people out there I can learn from in a lot of ways, and some of them deserve the title role model.

We just have to be circumspect about who we put into that very special category and how we think about them and about ourselves.

Kevin, I agree completely that there are people we can learn from. I was trying to say that I don’t look to any one person to serve as a role model in all respects. That has always led to unrealistic expectations and disappointment.

Hi Charles — Found you via Wendy at Herding Cats in Hammond River. You have such a welcoming writing style. I’ve enjoyed reading through some of your posts.

This essay struck a chord with me since I grew up catholic, and with that notion of “quiet” and “good” meaning the same thing. I eventually saw, however, that there were plenty of things some not-so-good people could do without making a sound.

I eventually realized the same thing, Amanda. That’s probably the origin of the expression, “It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for.” I remember resenting that the first few times I heard it, but it’s sometimes true.

Thank you for your nice comment. I’d like to hear about your Catholic experience sometime, and look forward to visiting your blog.

[…] people love to hear it. My dad loved telling stories, and I think I got that from him. Our friends Charles, Allan and Jessica tell some wonderful true life stories. And of course there’s Hyperbole and […]